


Back Seat

by JCdeSeingalt



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 11:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15929918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCdeSeingalt/pseuds/JCdeSeingalt
Summary: Thank you for the time you took to read this. I hope you found something that made it worthwhile.I won’t lie, I am no fanfic writer, at least not of the caliber of most writers around here. I’m just someone with the urge to write who has been lost for a little while. I had the good fortune of having a friend who suggested this was a place to start finding my way back and this is a first tentative step.If you’d care for it I’d be open to feedback and criticism and, once again, thank you.Go well.JC





	Back Seat

Here’s the thing. I’m ambitious. Relentlessly ambitious. And she’s not. She’s in love with life. She sings for the joy. She takes the back seat of an argument and the back seat in the car and now she’s taking the back seat in my life.

But here she is. One word. “Beca”. And now I’m doing that lip chewing thing that will hurt tomorrow. God. Damn. It. And her. And him. What does Jesse have to be so utterly adorable, tumbling over himself like a love sick puppy every time I look at him? How can I do this to him? You know what they call people who kick puppies... _m_ _onsters_.

I should have been hundreds of miles away, paying my dues on the path to being a producer. Except I’m here and she’s here and nothing will ever be the same again. So I held Jesse’s hand with mine while her eyes held mine. And I couldn’t do it any more.

I’ve let go of his hand, that was easy, but you just can’t let go of eyes like hers. Because you don’t hold them, you fall into them, floundering, sinking, drowning until you are lost to them.

And I’m so lost.

But if I’m lost in her I can’t get lost in music. Every time I’m with her a four beat bass of heartbeats invades my ears. Choruses of awkward pauses. A building break, solidly composed of eye contact that holds just a little too long, suddenly descending into the outro of lame excuses and fumbling with door handles or car keys or bra straps...whatever stands between me and getting away from her.

So now I’m trying to get unlost. Pretty sure that’s a word. It is now.

She’s totally going in to the back seat of my life and I’m getting the car and navigating my way out of here. The cases are packed. Tank is full. I’m prepared this time.

“Beca…”

Her eyes are the warmest ice I have ever seen. Pouring over me. I drop my gaze to her hands, holding an empty yellow cup, our yellow cup.

“...what’s happening? Are you leaving?”

Yes is what I want to say. Somehow she’s looking confused but I’m the one feeling it. “I, uh...I...this isn’t working out okay? This is not what I want. None of this. I only came here to appease my father. And we made a deal and I just told him there’s nothing here for me. Nothing that makes me happy. Not the Bellas, not Jesse, not…”

... _you._

I have to look away. It remains unspoken. Catalogued with all those accidental brushes of fingers against forearms, double entendres and blushes hidden behind dropped eyes and hair, lingering looks shattered by irrepressible grins, carefully chosen songs hummed in an off-hand way around each other and silent arguments over who gets the yellow cup for the morning’s orange juice or the evening’s beer.

“Why? You were happy last night, at the Riff-Off, you dominated...” she goes quiet, her eyes look at me but I know she’s not remembering the Riff-Off. We’re both thinking of what happened afterward, a tangle of limbs and clashing of lips, nails down my back, teeth in her neck, so very different from every time before. I knew then the harmony was gone. I had sung half a duet until my voice had broken, waiting for her to join, but she had just sat in the back seat of the theatre, watching, waiting. She was killing the music in me with every verse we played out.

She still looks confused, so despite my resolution to keep this simple I charge on. Of course I do. This is me right.

“There’s just no inspiration here. I can’t write or produce. It’s all the same here, the same single monotonous drone.”

Despite the way she crumbles under my words I can’t look away. Her eyes drop, shoulders slide down, back slumps, legs buckle and collapse her onto the chair behind her.

“What about…”

God if she says it now, if she dares to acknowledge it now, if that word comes out of her mouth I’m done, I can’t... I won’t be able to go.

 _Us_.

Say it. I can't believe how badly I want her to say it.

“...the Bellas...I mean...all the arrangements you created for us?” 

And there it is. In a moment the guilt, the fear, the aching loss is stripped away and now I’m just angry. Her eyes drop to the cup as I lift mine to her face.

“Is that all you care about? Your precious Bellas? What about...what about…”

I can’t do it either. There’s that line, in our silences, we somehow promised to never cross. I turn and this time I don’t fumble with the door handle. One twist and I’m outside and into the car. Before I slam the door I pause waiting for her voice to chase me across the patio and down the stairs. But the early morning air is crisp and empty and I’m alone.

Or so I think.

The engine rumbles. The Barden U radio station fades to static but I don’t change it. White noise. The road runs under my wheels, like an old school film I feel as if the landscape is passing by and I’m just driving in the same place. I can’t believe it's over. A snort escapes my lips. Over? It never even started. Here I am acting as if we were the Romeo and Juliet of our time...no, wait, that’s not right...the Rome-etta and Juliet? The Rose and Juliet? A rose by any other name...

I turn the radio off, apparently I’ve gone from living a half written love song to living a Shakespearean tragedy. Brilliant.

Still the white noise continues. That’s not right. No, not the Rome-etta and Juliet thing. Well, that isn’t right, but it's not what I’m talking about. The white noise. What the fu...it’s gurgling a little now. Snorting? Oh god, it stopped. Oh god oh god. This is how I die. I look in the rear view mirror.

“Auggghhhhh”

“Aaaaaaaaa…”

“Fat Amy.”

“....aaaaaaaaargh. Why are we screaming?”

“What are you…?”

“Where are we…?”

Somewhere back there I swerved. Most likely when Amy’s puffy, sleep deprived, hungover features loomed into my mirror. Now the car is settling into a cloud of dust as we scream at each other. Well, actually, Amy screams at me.

“Where are we? What the fuck. Are you kidnapping me? Where are you taking me?” She grabs at the door handle wrenches it open and… commando rolls I think… I don’t know, I think it was a commando roll, maybe a burpee, she hit kind of flat. I don’t think Amy knows what a burpee is though...maybe a commando roll. She gets up, brushes herself off then she runs. Three...four...five steps...I don’t bother chasing her. It won’t last. Six...seven. That’s it. She’s done. I release the handbrake and roll forward stopping just behind her. She collapses back on the bonnet. I grimace. Probably going to leave a mark.

It’s five minutes before she catches enough breath to threaten me with karate as I sit on the bonnet beside her.

“I’m not kidnapping you.”

“Oh, right…’cause you know I do know karate, I was like the North Eastern Tasmanian champion, like not the whole north east, just the north-North East champion.”

“What would I kidnap you for Amy?”

“My organs Beca. Student loans aren’t cheap.”

“Amy you know my dad teaches at Barden right? No loans.”

She thinks for a moment, “Alright, why was I in your car then?” For a moment I wonder if everyone from Australia is like this. I’m not sure what’s in the waters of Tasmania, or maybe it’s the childhood trauma of everything in Australia trying to kill you. Maybe it’s just Amy.

“Maybe _you_ can explain to _me_ why you were in my car…”

She squints and frowns simultaneously, “Well last thing I remember is drinking that drink you gave me at the party…” her squint turns accusing and focuses on me.

I raise my hands, “You left after that Amy.”

“Hmmmm…” she stares into the distance, “...mmmmmmmmmmm…mmmm...mm. I think I got into your car. Just figured I’d get a ride home. But have a nap while I waited.”

I grimace, I really have to clean up that crap in the back seat. How did I not see Fat Amy back there? What else...who else is back there?

“Yeah, I can see why Chloe’s always complaining when I call shotgun. But the Macca’s was still good, can’t have been there more than a month, really hit the spot. So where are we going?”

I sigh. I felt bad leaving a note on her bed when I couldn’t find her to say goodbye. So I guess an explanation is due, “I just can’t be at Barden anymore. Anyway, _we_ aren’t going anywhere. I’m going.”

“Mmmm...yeah nah. Chicks before...no, sistas before... You know bros before hoes, I’m like your lady bro and Chloe is like your lady hoe. And Jesse is you mister hoe too I guess. But he’s not really the problem, but he is part of the...”

“AMY!” I slide off the bonnet and face her.

“Oh what Beca, you think nobody noticed. But mates before dates, mate. I’m coming with because this is your attempt at solving your problems by running away and it’s pathetic. Nobody is better at running away from problems than me. Well, like running metaphorically, in a car and a plane, not actually running. Anyway, your attempt is pathetic and you’re gonna need me.”

I storm around to the driver side and slide inside, slamming the door and locking them all.

“BECA!” Amy is on her feet and rattling the door handle, “Damn it Beca. What’s your problem? You like her. She likes you.” She presses her face and hands against the glass, “The only problem with all your plans is Jesse was a terrible beard. Does he even like girls? I mean that hair is too perfect for a straight man. All the time, it’s perfect ALL THE TIME. And those lady hands? He has better nail grooming than you, that’s toe nails too. And...he...fucken...MOISTURISES…every morning...AND EVENING, BECA...EVERY EVENING.”

She slides down the pane, skin squealing against glass, her nose distorting and her lipstick leaving a pastel pink smear down the glass, “Dammit Beca let me in. I’m coming with you.”

I unlock the doors. I’m going to have to wash the car now. I hate washing the car.

“So where are we going then? Actually I don’t care as long as we stop for food soon.”

I fiddle with the steering wheel, push the keys into the ignition and turn the engine over. It roars then hums, the radio comes on. I sigh and press my head back against the head rest as Amy fiddles with the dial searching out a station.

“Do you really think she...she...uh...likes me?” I close my eyes.

Trust Amy to speak the unspoken. Now it’s out...what if she says no?

What if she says yes?

I don’t have to see her face, I can hear the condescending tone in her answer. “No Beca. She doesn’t like you. I mean I like you but I wouldn’t fuck you in the kitchen when I think nobody is home.”

The heat floods my face. Oh god. The kitchen incident last month. No no no. “You saw...er, you were home?”

“Yeah, it’s like you guys weren’t even trying to hide it. Of all the places...the kitchen? Where is literally like the MOST likely place I will be Beca?”

I groan.

“It’s okay though, you bleached the fuck out of that counter afterwards, like it used to be cream before but white is ok too. All good. Nobody minds. Actually Cynthia Rose thought…”

“WHAT THE FUCK AMY?” She actually jumped and flattened herself against the door. If I wasn’t so livid I would have been proud to startle her like that. “YOU TOLD EVERYONE…”

“No, not everyone. Just…” she stuck her tongue out the corner of her mouth and looked upward, ticking her fingers off, one, two, three, “...hmmm, and… yeah she was there…” nine, ten, back to closed fists, eleven, twelve… “yeah probably like everyone, lets just round it up to everyone.”

The silence lasted for a while after that. I’m glad Amy had the good sense to keep quiet and look forward through the windscreen. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for her. It would not have been difficult for me to kidnap her right then and dump her in the middle of the desert where she couldn’t talk to anyone, the only organ I’d take would be her tongue, just to be sure she wouldn’t talk. And Chloe didn’t like me apparently, so there was no going back. I could run forever. Modern day Bonny and...fuck, why does everyone have someone else, even the bad guys?

“Anyway…”

“No Amy…”

“Yeah but…”

“Shhhhh…”

“Justonething...she doesn’t likeyou,” Her words tumbled out together as I bristle at her. My five foot four frame felt like I was six two, inflated with anger, apathy, rejection and self loathing and probably a lot of other shit only a trained psychiatrist could identify.

“shelovesyou…”

You’d expect anger like that to explode if popped. But it didn’t, it just fluttered, twisted and disappeared. “Like I was saying I like you...but Chloe’s more, like she wants to kiss you, she wants to hold you, she definitely wants to f…”

“Amy. Geez.”

“Yeah but she also loves you.”

“Why do they call you Fat Amy…”

Without missing a beat she interjects, “I call myself Fat Amy, so ski…”

“Yeah Amy, I know.” I lean forward and start the engine, “You’d be better off calling yourself Blunt Amy, that’s what I’m saying.”

The static clears and there’s a duet on the radio. Just fucking great. Amy starts singing along. I can’t help it, the irony is too great and god I’m stressed and I just need to sing and not think for once so I break in.

Amy’s voice snaps to a halt, “Whoa, whoa, whoa there mate, this is a duet not some riff-off! You don’t just barge in.” The accusing squint is back, “God Beca, call yourself a producer? You can’t even follow the first rule of duet singing...har-mo-neeeeee. I mean, I like you and all but Meatloaf is more my thing here. If I want you to share my duet I’d ask you to join, only if I think you can handle all this.” She waved her hands over the general area of her midriff.

Chastised I close my eyes and fiddle with my hands, I’m doing that lip biting thing again.

 _Harmony_.

I open my eyes. “Fat Amy!”

“Meh, I think I prefer Blunt Amy now. Or maybe Abrupt Amy or...Brusque Amy...that’s got a ring to it...or maybe Forthright Amy...Forthright Amy the First...nah...too long…”

I laugh and interject, “No, maybe not so blunt. You stay you Fat Amy.” I swing the wheel and peel the car across the road facing back the way I came.

“Oh, cool...phew, you were making me have a bit of identity crisis there Beca. I mean I like you and all but I much prefer meat…”

“Ewww, Amy!”

“...loaf. Meatloaf Beca. I was talking about the duet, geez. I definitely like me some Meatloaf,” she turned and drew out a lengthy, suggestive wink, “And a little sausage too.”

I grin, turn the music up and press my foot to the accelerator. I’ve got the lyrics in my mind, the beat in my heart and I know just the woman to ask to help me find that perfect harmony.

I’m a producer after all, that’s what I do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the time you took to read this. I hope you found something that made it worthwhile. 
> 
> I won’t lie, I am no fanfic writer, at least not of the caliber of most writers around here. I’m just someone with the urge to write who has been lost for a little while. I had the good fortune of having a friend who suggested this was a place to start finding my way back and this is a first tentative step. 
> 
> If you’d care for it I’d be open to feedback and criticism and, once again, thank you.
> 
> Go well.  
> JC


End file.
